


A War is Brewing

by howler32557038



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Comedy, Comic Book Science, Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, Naughty language, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Pranks and Practical Jokes, Surprisingly not crack, also not a coffee shop AU, coffee wank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7207730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint likes cheap, pre-ground coffee. Tony has finer tastes. In a tense rehash of the events Civil War, the Avengers are forced to choose a side, and Peter Parker nearly dies because two old men won't quit arguing.</p><p>Based on an anonymous Tumblr prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Grind

**Author's Note:**

> ANONYMOUS ASKED:
> 
> Ever wonder what would happen if Tony and Clint got into a fight over coffee? Brands Brewing times? Techniques? Who had the last cup and didn't bother to brew another batch what are we living in a dystopia it's rude steve tell him it's rude!!
> 
> ZACK RESPONDED:
> 
> This is pure gold.

_Clinton Francis Barton, you were retired, you dumb prick. Happily retired. You had your old lady, you had your kiddos, had your dog, had nothing to do and almost nobody giving you orders. And you fucking blew it, didn’t you? Clint, you stupid sack of shit. Now look at you, man. Officially in your forties, still trying to be an Avenger. Forty years old, no super powers, and yet here you are. What were you thinking._

That is what Clint mumbles to himself every morning over the screech of his alarm. Or some close variation thereof. He slaps the bedside table at least ten times trying to find the demon-phone, which is screaming out rooster crows on a loop because he had once had a major lapse in judgment that had caused him to think, _Surely, that will be pleasant to wake up to._ God, was he ever wrong.

He jams his feet into the leg-holes of his rumpled pajama pants and pulls on the t-shirt that’s perpetually draped over his headboard, and he wanders into the bathroom to take a piss and brush his teeth, usually without so much as glancing at his hair. Coffee first. Pretty later.

Most of the time, living at the (New) Avengers Facility was pretty cool. It definitely had perks - free food, all the training equipment an archer or spy could ask for, nice living quarters, and, for the most part, pleasant company. And it was _almost_ free. Tony Stark didn’t exactly charge rent - in fact, he hadn’t asked anything of them at all. He’d even offered to make room for families and plus-ones, if they’d wanted. Unfortunately, Steve Rogers and his big stupid morally-superior face had made a few suggestions when the place was first established. “We should take turns training the new recruits,” he had offered innocently, looking down on all of them from atop his high horse. “We can do it on a rotation, so that the burden doesn’t fall on just one person!” And with him figuratively twisting their arms like that, everyone had no choice but to nod and smile and tell him what a fantastic idea it was.

Consequently, Clint now gets to enjoy several weeks during which he _usually_ manages to sleep in, followed by a week of hellish pre-dawn torture that would inevitably bend his whole sleep schedule over a table and fuck it sideways, no spit, no reach around. Added bonus: while still grouchy and bleary-eyed, he has to drag himself outside and deal with a bunch of green agents, none of whom he was permitted to “accidentally” kill. Should have stayed retired.

Like hell he’s going to suffer alone, though. Granted, his choice of company happens to be the one person who hates new recruits more than he does, and she hates getting up early more than - well, anyone. Clint can only hope that after so many years of companionship, he’s got the “bribe Natasha” thing down to an easy science.

He shuffles down the long hallway that runs alongside the spacious common area. All of the living quarters are on his left, at the North side of the building where everyone can enjoy a balcony and soft natural light all day. He grabs the handle of Natasha’s door and holds still until the light on the panel above his hand flashes from yellow to green.

When Nat and Clint both have occasion to bunk with their teammates at the facility, they will, without fail, end up indulging in their long-standing tradition of catching up over a shot or ten. After the second time one of them had been forced to drunk-text Tony for help getting past the high-tech locks on their quarters, Tony had made sure that both Natasha and Clint’s handprints would open either respective door. They just needed to agree on a designated door opener before they were too belligerent to care who caught them passed out on the common room couch.

Clint barges in without knocking and gives Nat his most obnoxiously cheerful, “Good morning, sunshine!”

Natasha is uncovered, face-down, spread-eagled and braless. Unlike most days, she’s actually wearing some underwear, thank God. One of her socks is still hanging on, while the other has been flung across the room. Clint smirks. There’s his graceful princess. He almost takes a picture to send to Laura. His wake-up call has had no effect whatsoever. Nat’s still snoring. Now, if she didn’t respond and _didn’t_ keep snoring, he’d know she was faking it. Keeping that small tactical advantage is the only incentive against gleefully informing her that she sounds like a clogged lawnmower when she sleeps. He gives her a few seconds, but when she doesn’t stir, he goes straight to his trump card. “Natasha. Donuts,” he says softly, and shuts the door. He doesn’t wait up for her - just heads straight for the kitchen. If she’s not dressed and sitting at the table in five, he’ll go back to check up on her, because she’s probably dead.

Clint knows that Tony’s in the kitchen long before he sees him. The hiss of the Mastrena’s steam-wand flushing out is a dead giveaway. Nobody else uses that thing. Tony’s the only one who has the wherewithal to concoct some Cafe con Bullshit Starbucks drink at five in the morning. Clint yawns loudly as he enters to announce both his presence and his discontent, and starts filling up the normal-people coffee pot with good old tap water. “Pulled another all-nighter, Stark?” he asks. Tony turns to him, surprisingly bright-eyed, as he pulls a triple into a pair of shot-glasses and dumps them into his foamy milk. Clint knows that one - it’s a machito? Machachito? Macchiato. Yeah. One of those Tony-drinks.

“Why does everyone assume I don’t sleep?” he asks, tone flat and accusatory, but hardly serious. “Every time I get up early, _somebody_ inevitably makes a comment. I started taking drugs for that, like, a year ago,” he shrugs, leaning on the granite counter and taking a noisy sip of his girl coffee. “What about you, Barton? You look extra grumpy.”

“Just sorely in need of my coffee. And a new job, but hey, you know, it’s whatever,” he chuckles.

“Here, let me pull you a few shots. It’s quicker.”

Clint fills the filter basket with his pre-ground Maxwell House, shaking his head with a grimace. “Nope.”

“Come on, Barton. Let me be your barista. Make you whatever you want,” Tony offers, trying to tempt him. “You look like an Americano sort of guy.”

The coffee maker starts to bubble and whine. Clint tries again, this time with feeling. _“Nope.”_

“Alright, fine,” Tony concedes as he makes the fucking drink anyway.

Clint is more than content to sit down at the counter with his empty mug and listen to the Cuisinart whisper sweet promises of wakefulness into his hearing aids, but he’s not exactly surprised when Tony can’t manage to stay silent for a full minute.

“Did you know--”

Oh, Clint _loves_ it when Tony starts a sentence with those words.

“--that the espresso machine was invented in 19--” he mumbles a year, “by Luigi Bezzera?”

“Wow. Neato,” Clint interjects, in the tone of voice usually reserved for when Cooper tries to make him look at “awesome” roadkill on the highway.

“He was a businessman. His employees got coffee breaks, but those were kind of running long, cutting into productivity. So, this guy invents the single-serve espresso machine and _boom_ , productivity goes through the roof, and we get to enjoy the caramelly, delicious result.”

“Well, man, that sounds like some capitalist horseshit if I ever heard it,” Clint remarks, making use of the brew-pause feature to pour himself the first available cup. He adds a little cold water and a packet of Splenda to it, hoping that it will make Stark’s asshole clench. It seems to do the trick.

“You know, we do have a French press,” Tony comments.

“But it doesn’t make the bubbly noise,” Clint replies in a mockingly childish voice just before taking two manly gulps of his sweet, cheap coffee.

“We also have, you know, like, a big beautiful cabinet over there that is brimming with options that are _not_ Maxwell House.”

Clint drains his cup even though he doesn’t strictly care to drink his coffee that fast. It’s not really about enjoying it at this point, anyway. It’s about spite. “Yeah, but are they _good to the last drop?”_ he taunts.

“Um, they are good in the first place, which is a marked improvement over that mass-produced, unethically-sourced, robusta junk. In all seriousness, they should be sued for that by-line. It’s reckless endangerment. You could use those dregs to remove calcium and lime deposits from your plumbing. No telling what it’s doing to you.”

“Mmm,” Clint groans, pouring another cup. “Yeah, you sold me. I need a product that’s going to take the calcium deposits off my plumbing in the morning.”

“Jesus, Barton, make sure to flush when you’re done--Rogers! Captain, here you go. I made you a cup of coffee.”

Apparently, Steve hadn’t expected the kitchen to be so crowded, because he’s wandered in wearing nothing but sleep pants. Clint watches him _almost_ turn tail and skitter back to his room to put on more clothes, but Tony shoves the Americano into his hands before he can escape. Steve is usually up before anyone else, but Clint gets the sense that deep down, he’s not much of an early bird. He always spends ten minutes wandering around the kitchen with one eye half-open, looking like he can’t remember what year it is. He cradles the hot cup in his palms for a few seconds, staring at it, until his brain catches up with his surroundings enough to become suspicious. “What’s in it?”

“Water. Espresso. Definitely not urine or magnesium citrate because why would I do something like that?” Tony explains, stirring his macchiato.

Steve scoffs at the apparent challenge and takes a sip.

Tony watches him calculatingly, keeping one eye on Barton. “What do you think? Better than that swill Barton likes to throw down?”

Steve takes a second sip. “I can’t really tell any difference.”

 _Oh, Captain Rogers, you are a hero,_ Clint thinks with a smile. Even a simple “no” would have hurt Tony less. Clint taps another Splenda noisily into his cup, enjoying the way it makes that little vein stand out on Tony’s temple.

Steve takes another mug down off the little tree where they hang by their handles. This one, he fills from the pot, which has now almost reached its fifteen cup capacity, minus Clint’s two half-servings. The Americano gets dressed up with a heavy dose of cream and sugar. By the third spoonful that Steve stirs in, Tony is struggling to force his scowl to look like a grin. Steve tries his coffee again and looks far more satisfied this time, then picks up both cups to take back to his quarters.

“Hey, I can whip one of those up for Sarge, too. Really, no problem. He might have better taste than you,” Tony presses.

Steve shakes his head. “Oh, no, no, that’s fine. He’ll be fine with this. As long as it’s hot, he’s happy. I’d hate to waste your good coffee,” he deflects graciously, hurrying back down the hallway to get out of the crossfire.

Tony recovers quickly, turning back to Clint with a smile. “There’s a joke to be had here. Something about tall, hot, Americanos and Barnes not being able to handle two of them in the space of one morning. I don’t know, I’ll clean it up and save it for tomorrow.”

The Cuisinart beeps, which means five minutes have passed. Clint turns to the kitchen’s entryway, already knowing that Nat will be standing there in a camisole and leggings with her hair in a bun and expression belying her hatred for all things that occur before 0900.

“Where’s my fuckin’ donut, Barton?”


	2. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky discover a slight equipment malfunction, Tony and Vision play a harmless prank, and Clint learns more about coffee than he ever fucking wanted to know. Also, Peter blows up a chem-lab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Listen here, I write DARKFIC, okay? Hydra Trash Party. Nasty Stuff. I am, like, the most hardcore writer in the Cap fandom, okay? I LOVE hurting the Avengers. Hydra!Cap? So freaking cool. So edgy. I'm so evil that I--OMG, a prompt about Clint and Tony fighting about coffee? I have to write this immediately. So cute."
> 
> \-- from my autobiography

Tony is like, ninety-six percent certain that physics has not yet presented a problem to humankind that he can’t out-engineer if given enough coffee, snack food, and loud music. He’s usually pretty great at maintaining that delusion, too. Once, in college, he maintained it for a full week.

Oh, but physics is such a fickle bitch. She always finds a frustratingly simplistic and frankly humiliating way to throw him a curveball. She likes to remind Tony that she still owns his ass and always will. And by her very definition, physics is pretty fucking awesome at throwing curveballs.

It’s all good healthy fun, though. She likes to kick him around, and he likes to open her up and see how she ticks. It’s a kinky exchange, admittedly, but he likes to think that they keep it safe, sane, and consensual.

This problem, though. Okay, this one is going to take some thought, sure, but in the meantime, he gets to play with electromagnets, vibranium, and Wakandan tech - all very fun things which he finds vaguely arousing - and this particular situation has the added benefit of being totally hilarious. He’ll get it figured out. He might just take his time. Intentionally. In the interest of being thorough. And humiliating Steve.

He interrupts Rogers’ clear and concise explanation with some bewildered stuttering. “Okay--Cap - look, you’re not really describing this in a way I’m understanding, so if you could just--”

“How could you not understand, Tony? I told you exactly what’s been--”

Tony stops him with a raised finger, but not the usual finger, because he’s in a good mood. “Hey. Are you a scientist? No? So I’ll forgive you for not knowing the rules. Rule number one of being a good scientist: observe. Hang on just one second please--” he says flightily, breaking his own train of thought to check his watch. “Vision, it is fifty five past the hour. Send Barton another one.”

“Certainly, sir,” Vision shouts monotonously from across the lab.

Tony picks up where he left off, ignoring the unasked question narrowing Rogers’ stare. “As I was saying - I can’t really diagnose the problem until I see it happen firsthand. Sorry, buddy.”

“Oh, come on. You know _exactly_ what’s happening, you’re just trying to get us to--”

Tony’s jaw drops as he takes a defensive step back. “I would so not do that. I would never do that. Rhodey, sweetheart, would I do that?”

Rhodes, straddling Tony’s workbench with the draft of a new suit laid out before him, tries to bite back a smile and fails. “I mean, _yes,_ but you’re also right. Observation is key,” he says innocuously, and then adds with a poorly concealed smirk, “Plus, I kind of want to see this, too, not going to lie.”

“Give me a break,” Steve begs, rolling his eyes.

 _Hahaha. No._ “Don’t make the Colonel order you, Captain,” Tony threatens.

Rogers and Barnes exchange a long-suffering glance followed by one of their eerily synchronized displays of emotion which, currently, manifests as a heavy sigh of resignation. Barnes finally abandons his post at the entrance to Tony’s workshop, where he’s been leaning on the door-frame like some kind of leather-clad vampire who needs an invitation to cross the threshold. He shuffles over to plant himself on Rogers’ right and stares Tony down, eyes hooded and head cocked to the side, clearly irritated that he’s being forced to participate in this demonstration.

“Okay,” Tony smiles, clapping his hands together in giddy anticipation. “Show me the problem.”

Steve detaches his shield from the back of his uniform and tosses it past Tony. Vision, who has been working silently at one of the larger computers on a few upgrades to Friday’s system, catches it without bothering to turn around. He sets it in his lap and maintains a safe distance. Rogers, with one more tight-lipped glare in Tony’s direction which simultaneously says _screw_ _you_ and _please spare us_ , activates the electromagnets on the sleeve of his combat uniform.

The metallic _clang_ echoes through the workshop. Rhodes startles, Barnes grits his teeth, Vision finally turns around, Rogers silently pleads for Tony to keep his mouth shut, Wilson comes jogging down the hall to stick his head in and see if Tony’s dead or concussed, and Tony tries to breathe against an insistent onslaught of - oh fuck it, he giggles like a tickled toddler. He can’t even make a comment to infuriate Cap. If he opens his mouth, he giggles, and if he closes it, he outright snorts. He can’t shake it. He laughs until his eyes water.

It's too beautiful. Electromagnets on the suit activate, shield’s a little out of range, Barnes’ prosthesis is _in_ range, _boom._ YouTube money. Undoubtedly a dangerous complication if they were in the middle of an op, but in his lab, Tony allows himself to appreciate the sheer elegance of the engineering oversight.

Wilson strolls in, seeming to understand perfectly what’s going on without any explanation. “Oh, you guys finally getting that fixed?” he teases, then comes to occupy the space in between Rogers and Barnes and adds in a thick, tearful voice, “Congratulations, boys. I’m so happy I could be a part of this. Ya’ll have the sort of marriage we should all aspire to. Such magnetism.”

“Sam,” Steve admonishes, flushing until his cheeks are that lovely color which Tony has dubbed _rockets’ glare red._ Sam claps them both on the shoulder and then hurries to join Tony a few feet in front of them, safely out of range of either of their spasmodically clenching fists.

Tony wipes his eyes on his shirt-sleeve and gives a deep nod of appreciation. “Oh, shit, Wilson. Thank you. Picking up my slack while I recover. Good man.”

“Sir,” Vision interrupts laconically. “The time is two o’clock.”

“Oh, shit, okay,” Tony replies hoarsely. “Uh, let me think. Got to be a good one. You know what, no, send it to him via Facebook, please. He won’t check that until later. Let him think I skipped one.”

“Skipped what?” Rogers asks sharply.

“Forget it, we’ve got bigger problems. Like you and the Robo Hobo being permanently hand-fasted over there. Okay, turn it off and do it one more--” and he almost loses it again, but recovers, “One more time,” he narrowly finishes, taking it out his phone.

The magnet powers down with a crackle and Barnes rolls his shoulder, grinding his teeth.

“Tony, do you have to film it?” Steve asks with a laugh that implies he’s finally giving in to the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Barnes shows no such improvement in temperament. Probably something to do with the fact that _Robo Hobo_ is his least favorite Stark-made custom epithet.

Rhodey and Sam answer on his behalf, with a concurrent, “Yes, absolutely,” and “Duh, Steve,” respectively.

“You already saw it,” Barnes counters tiredly.

“Yeah, I saw it _that_ time,” Tony argues. “But I’m going to need to see it again. Couple of times, at least. Got to observe to diagnose, remember? Plus, rule number two: document. I mean, unless you guys just want to demonstrate this repeatedly as I try to formulate a solution--”

“It’s fine,” Rogers’ concedes, with an accidental drag on the _f_ that magically make it sound more like _It’s fuckin’ fine._

Tony smiles, pleased. “Great, okay. Stand a little further apart this time. Awesome, perfect. Ready, kids? Do it for the Vine.” The voice-command pulls up his camera and starts recording.

_Clang._

No one can keep from laughing this time, except for Bucky, whose poor metal rotator cuff is probably still vibrating with impact shock and who might, additionally, now have mild whiplash. Vision’s mouth twitches, which is definitely his version of raucous laughter. Even Rogers looks like he’s biting his cheeks to keep from smiling for his friend’s sake. Tony struggles to keep the shot steady as he chuckles, then gleefully saves the recording.

“What is a ‘Vine?’” Bucky questions suspiciously as Steve releases his arm.

“Just something Tony likes to use to blackmail me,” Rogers explains with a sardonic smile.

“Five past, sir,” says Vision, standing to send Cap’s shield sailing back toward him. Rogers raises his arm to catch it but it gets intercepted by a sudden leap from Sam, who hands it off with a cocked eyebrow.

Tony somehow manages to keep his expression neutral as he titles and uploads his new favorite six seconds, thinking about Vision’s announcement. “Uh, gee, what have we not done? Ooh, I’ve got it. Sign him up for some appropriate mailing lists. At least fifty mailing lists.” Vision bends over the computer and punches the keys a little more forcefully than strictly necessary. 

“What are you doing?” Steve dares to ask, as if he _ever_ wants to know.

“Multitasking - making several people angry at me at once,” Tony reveals coyly.

“Sign who up for mailing lists?” Steve presses, the question now an obvious demand. “Tony, who the hell are you bothering now?”

“I’m just glad it’s not me for once,” Barnes grouses.

“What, you didn’t like the historical gay fanfiction I sent you? I found it poignant,” Tony remarks, strolling over to his worktable and flicking his phone at the air above it to pull up the specs on Barnes’ arm.

“It was a Howling Commandos gang-bang porno, and it was wildly inappropriate and...uncomfortable,” Steve snaps, sounding _shockingly_ displeased, for some reason.

Tony runs his hand across the holographic arm before him, pulling the vibranium outer-shell away like a sleeve to reveal the servomotors and circuitry. Tony simpers in Barnes’ direction through the bluish glow of the hologram. “Aw, liked it so much you had to share?” And then Barnes and Rogers are headed over to look at the specs, which basically amounts to five hundred collective enhanced pounds of butthurt slowly barreling his way, so Tony decides that a quick change of subject is in order. He peels back the gears and wires of the hologram until the base structure and its hydraulic piston joints are revealed. “Oh, lookie there,” he declares loudly as if he’s made a discovery. He actually has no idea what he’s going to say yet because Friday hasn’t finished analyzing all of the components, but he’s reasonably confident that he’ll probably come up with something worthy of a remark. And sure enough, the old girl delivers. Suck it, physics.

“Mr. Barnes, I am sorry to tell you this, but you have a disease known as hemochromatosis.”

“What?” Steve frowns, actually concerned.

“What’s that mean?” Barnes asks, scanning the room for reactions to see if anyone is giving him that dead-man-walking look.

Tony does a neat little karate chop through the center of the virtual humerus and rotates one half of the newly divided cross-section toward Cap and Barnes, so that they can see its solid interior.”Little bit of iron overload, Bourne Identity,” he smirks, spreading out his fingers to enlarge the image. “Looks like T’Challa’s team of genius engineers thought an iron core in the skeleton would make up for a few of the pounds you lost by switching the exterior shell over to vibranium. They probably wanted to make sure you still had some weight behind your left-hook.” Apparently that was too many words too fast, because Barnes doesn’t look impressed with the revelation. “Magnets like iron. The Wakandan crew didn’t account for your frequent proximity to electro _magnets_. Thus, the mid-battle non-consensual hand-holding.”

Barnes finally gets his little light bulb turned on and says, “Well...shit.”

“It’s all good, though, totally fixable. At least it’s not the neuro-connections this time, right?”

“How do you plan on fixing it?” Steve asks, head tipping with puppy-like concern.

“Sir.”

“Give me a sec, Vision. I’m going to cut a track into the casing and install a little magnet to slide around on it. If the iron becomes magnetized, it’ll, you know. Stroke your bone, Bucko.” Tony allows himself a wink. “Neat, huh?”

“So you’ve got to take the whole thing apart,” Barnes grimaces.

Steve sees his opportunity to play the darling concerned husband. “Is there any other option? You’ve taken it apart three times in as many months, Tony,” he says, shifting protectively closer to his pouting mecha-boyfriend.

“Sir, it’s--”

“I know what time it is, Vision. Just send his wife a Starbucks gift card or something, I’m busy. Yeah, actually, there are two other options. We could - uh, theoretically - periodically heat his skeleton which is nestled comfortably into his _living flesh_ to about four hundred and seventy-five degrees fahrenheit? That could work. Or we could also beat it with a big hammer every time it starts acting up. It’s your call, boys.”

“Take it apart,” Bucky replies abruptly, looking like he’s ready to tear the whole thing off and hand it over right there.

“Mr. Stark--” Vision tries a third time.

Tony finally rounds on him. “Two ten, I know. Did you send Laura the gift card or not?”

“Sir, I rather thought you would like to know that Mr. Barton’s shift training new field agents ended at two o’clock, which may mean that--”

Precisely on cue, the doors to the workshop burst open and Clint strides in, holding his cellphone in the air. “Yeah, that Barton’s probably on his way up and he’s probably a little bit fucking annoyed and he’s probably going to find one of your stupid transformer suits and piss in the goddamn helmet. It may mean that.”

“As long as it’s not one of mine,” Rhodes shrugs.

“Give you twenty bucks to do it, Barton,” Sam grins.

Steve turns around, obviously not realizing that a practical joke has been in the works all morning. “Clint. What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“This Hunger Games-looking motherfucker right here blew up my fucking work phone _and_ my family phone all _fucking_ morning, and when I eventually caved and turned them both off so that I could train these fucking greenies in peace, he fucking turned them back on remotely and now I’m gonna fuckin’ kill his ass.”

Sam shakes his head like he’s trying to knock some water out of his ears. “Woah, Barton. That was some Fury-level fuckery, right there.”

“Fuckin’-A right, it is,” Barton seethes, coming toward Tony’s worktable with a bit of a murder-glint in his eyes.

Tony is suddenly rather glad for the five hundred collective enhanced pounds of super-soldier, because half of it has a fetish for conflict resolution and it’s standing in between him and Hulk-Barton. “Sorry, must be something wrong with my phone. Send button's stuck or something. All morning? Wow, bet my bill’s going to be through the roof. Anyway, can I get you something? Cup of coffee?” Tony offers sweetly.

And whoops, that does it. Barton chucks his work phone at Tony’s head like he’s suddenly channeling Sandy Koufax. Barnes side-steps the projectile, ready to let it smash into Tony’s face (which Tony will definitely remember when he’s disconnecting the arm’s sensory units from his nervous system later) but Rogers has the decency to reach out and catch it, effectively confiscating it from Barton’s crazy ass.

“Every five minutes!” Barton shouts, voice high and strained. His descent into madness is audible. “Every five goddamn minutes, all fucking morning, Tony. While I’m handling firearms. Every five minutes, a latte recipe, and random coffee fact, a “This Day in Coffee History” post, Starbucks memes, coffee-shop Facebook game requests, coffee news articles, research papers on washing methods, medical journals on caffeine headaches, fucking _barista porn_ , sixty-five subscriptions to coffee-related newsletters--”

“Okay, that one’s on Vision. I only told him to sign you up for fifty.”

“To be fair, Mr. Stark did say _at least_ fifty--”

Clint points a finger at Vision in warning. “Microsoft Sam, you best shut the fuck up before I call Wanda up here to put your synthetic ass back in the basement.”

“Shit,” Rhodes intones softly.

“Why the fuck, Stark? On a fucking Monday? Really? My phone’s over its limit on data for the month and it is the 11th,” Clint shouts.

“Come on, Barton,” Tony chuckles, “Harmless prank, buddy, no need to blow--”

And before he can finish speaking, a gust of humid, melted-rubber-scented air billows out of the adjacent laboratory, accompanied by a very much non-metaphorical explosion of what, by all appearances, might well be white silly string.

“Up,” Tony finishes his sentence with a wincing smile. “Okay, Vision, could you please remind me why we’re letting Mr. Parker use my chem-lab,” Tony begs, tone admirably calm as he looks toward the ceiling for answers and secretly thanks the ceiling Gods for the timely distraction.

“I believe you offered the facility yourself after learning that he was synthesizing volatile compounds in his bedroom closet, sir.”

Tony huffs, tossing the iron-filled skeleton into the virtual trash-bin with a dejected sweep of his hand. “Hey!” he calls out toward the next-door lab. “Itsy Bitsy, you okay in there?”

“Yeah,” comes the slightly strained and muffled but enthusiastic assurance.

“You need me to come get you down off the wall again, buddy?”

“Yeah,” comes the equally enthusiastic concession.

“Be there shortly, kiddo,” Tony shouts back, looking to the room at large for any sign of the sympathy he so clearly deserves.

Clint takes a few steps backward, heading for door, but keeping his eye fixed on Tony. “Not even close to done with you, Stark. You watch your damn back.”

Cap looks like he wants to admonish his teammate for the threat, but he must come to the conclusion that _maybe_ Tony deserves it, and instead just tosses Clint’s phone back to him. Clint somehow manages to slam a door with a hydraulic closer on his way out, which Tony has to admit is kind of impressive. It’s been an exciting Monday. He decides to press his luck and see if he can make it even better. “Captain, I believe Barton used some really hurtful and offensive language and I just think you should tell him to--”

“Oh, eat my fuckin’ ass, Stark,” Rogers scowls.

Tony silently declares it a national holiday and excuses himself to the chem-lab to cut Parker down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next week, my darlings! Big Thank you to HobbitSpaceCase for all the great advice!


	3. Share

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This shit is getting settled. If a few teenagers have to die, well...whatever, man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheee, last chapter!

Clint is pissed.

Clint is so pissed he’s starting to lose sight of the myriad of sensible reasons to _not_ be pissed. This is just Tony and it’s just a harmless joke and they’re fighting about _coffee_ of all the fucking things and the barrage of messages and emails was just a very _Tony_ thing to do. No big deal, if he felt like being sensible. Which he frankly doesn’t, because it’s Monday and he’s tired.

Furthermore, Clint has the capacity to be a petty bastard. A far greater capacity than he lets on to his fellow Avengers, with the exception of Natasha. Natasha not only knows about what a bitch Clint can be, she _thrives_ on it, feeds it, provokes it, and then celebrates it. Usually with a shot, because that’s what best friends do. Without Nat around, maybe this little disputation wouldn’t have escalated so drastically, but she had found herself wide awake after her two long johns and her cup of _(normal fucking)_ coffee this morning, and she had come down to help him train his field agents out of the goodness of her heart.

The text messages had started just as Clint was briefing the new recruits on the itinerary and they had continued at five minute intervals for the rest of his workday. The second that Clint had dismissed the trainees, he and Natasha had gravitated together, noses practically touching, and the vicious echo chamber tête-à-tête of _Can you believe, What’s his problem, He’s such a fucking, So immature, Has to have the last word,_ and _He can eat my_ had immediately started in earnest. It took the two of them mere minutes to whip up a metaphorical whirlwind of brutal shit-talk, and then Clint had set out for Tony’s workshop on a kill-mission while Natasha had run out to buy some greasy take-out Chinese over which they would inevitably continue bitching about Stark until both were full and satisfied. In the course of their late lunch, they concluded that Tony had created Ultron and sent half the team to a maximum security floating prison over his stupid Accords, and had thereby relinquished his right to be an irritating ass-bandit.

“So. How do we hurt him?” Natasha asks, scraping all the vegetables she’s picked out of her lo mein onto Clint’s plate. “My suggestion is hot coffee water-boarding, but you know...that’s why I’m not in charge of our revenge fantasies anymore.”

Clint groans as he sits up from his nest on the couch and cranes his neck to get a view of the kitchen. Sam, Steve, and Wanda have apparently all run out of important things to do. Looks like they’re trying to bread and fry things that they’ve found in the freezer. Clint briefly considers yelling at them before he remembers that they’re not his kids and that’s not his kitchen they’re fucking up and it’s not his problem if they make themselves sick. “Hey, Cap, what’s the best way to hurt Tony?”

“Beating him over the head worked pretty well,” Steve shrugs, taking an experimental bite of what looks like a hamburger designed to kill a lesser man.

“We should drop cars on him again,” Wanda suggests with a fond smile, carefully maneuvering something unidentifiable out of their pot of oil. Clint is suddenly incredibly jealous - a guy with three kids ends up cooking a lot of frozen fries, and it would be pretty sweet to drop them in the pan from seven feet away with your mind and not get popped on.

“Oh, no,” Sam interjects, shaking his head as he wipes tears from his eyes (Clint can smell the onion he’s slicing from the common room couch). “Hit him in the ego. Just let him know you’re cooler than him. He hates that.”

“Aw, you think I’m cooler than Tony?”

“Of course you are,” Wanda assures him.

Sam and Steve’s eyes meet and they mutually agree to remain silent.

“Neither of you are cool,” Natasha scoffs. “Sam and I are the only cool Avengers.”

“Okay, but shut up--wait, I’ve got an idea,” Clint says, throwing a fortune cookie at her. “So, that coffee he makes? It’s total bullshit, right?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “I’m in the mood for it sometimes.”

“No you’re not, not anymore,” Clint says firmly. “Or you’re uninvited to my Halloween party.”

“Yeah, it’s trash. Fuck his dumb coffee,” she ammends hastily. Clint has a long tradition of sending his children to a babysitter on Halloween so the grown-ups can behave like animals, and Laura is one hell of a bartender. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna call our whole team up here and see if anyone can tell the difference between his Americano and latte shit and my regular coffee - you know no one’s going to be able to taste a difference. The only reason Tony or anybody else drinks that garbage is because they’re an elitist asshole and I’m going to show them all the light.”

Natasha chews thoughtfully on a bite of egg-roll. “Okay. May I be honest with you?” she asks sweetly. “Sounds pretty dumb. Sounds like all you’re going to do is annoy everyone and waste a bunch of coffee.”

“I thought we were friends.”

“If you are dead set on this, Clint, I’ll support you. But hear me out: we could still just slash his tires and then go watch Star Trek.”

“Do not slash anyone’s tires, Natasha,” Steve calls out from the kitchen. “Last time you got an idea like that I had to bail you and Buck out of jail.”

 _Do it,_ Wanda mouths behind his back.

Clint makes up his mind. “No, I want to prove him wrong in front of the entire team. He won’t listen to reason? Fine. He can listen to statistics. The Avengers prefer real coffee,” he proclaims loudly, like he’s planting his flag on a new shore.

“Fine, whatever,” Natasha laughs, mouth full. “Call the gang up here. Let’s do it.”

“You have to do it.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t use my phone again this month.”

 

* * *

 

“I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here today,” Clint says flatly, addressing the team at large. The common room is packed with Avengers - Wanda and Vision are being weirdly close on the love-seat; Rhodes, Scott, and Tony take up one couch, with Peter perched on the arm, picking webbing out of his hair and stuffing it into the pockets of his jacket; and the other couch is occupied by Natasha, Sam, Steve, and Bucky (whose arm appears to be missing a few non-essential pieces). All of them look like they have some idea of why Clint requested a so-called “emergency meeting.” Clint figures that the prevailing theory is Stark’s public execution. They’re on the right track.

Stark raises a finger rather demurely. “Ooh, because you’re a petty bastard.”

Clint adjusts the volume on one of his hearing aids. “This fucking thing’s messed up again...” he gripes under his breath, then reaffixes it in his ear. “But yes, Tony, that’s exactly right. We’re here because you’re a petty bastard.”

“Guys,” Tony sighs. “We already do the birthday-drinking intervention, the holiday loneliness intervention, _and_ the yearly ‘what you’ve invented is a crime against God and nature’ intervention. Is three per annum not enough?”

“Oh, wait--you forgot the interventions where me and Barnes try to get you to seek help for your PTSD,” Sam interjects.

“Oh, _what_ PTSD?” Tony snaps defensively.

 _Nope. Coffee now. Trauma later._ “Tony: meet me in the kitchen. Make eight Americanos and eight lattes, no foam.”

“Okay, but the foam is sort of essential to the definition of--”

Clint snaps his fingers and points to the kitchen, like he’s telling Cooper to do the dishes. “Do not make words. Make eight no-foam lattes.”

Tony throws up his hands in surrender and saunters out of the common room. Clint steps close at his heels, marching him toward the Mastrena.

 

* * *

 

The team heaves a collective sigh and toes begin to tap impatiently in time with the bubbling coffee pot and the hiss of the steam-wand.

Bucky is the first to speak up. “Do you think they’d notice if I left?”

Sam manages to look at every Avenger except Barnes. “Did you guys hear something?”

Steve gives a forced chuckle - he doesn’t want to be here either, but he’s willing to indulge his teammates to a point. He pats Bucky’s knee. “Clint and Tony are just - they’re just messing around, Buck. Let ‘em have their fun.”

Scott shifts in his seat. “Um, Barton was not wearing his ‘fun’ face, Cap.”

“Can I just go?”

Sam squints. “There it was again.”

“Go where?” Steve challenges.

“Bed.”

Peter speaks up excitedly. “So they’re just in there making a bunch of coffee, or…? I’m not getting what they’re fighting about, exactly. Do we get to try the coffee? Like, drink it?”

“No, we have to snort it, like cocaine,” Sam deadpans. “How else you try coffee?”

“Yes, Peter, I think that Mr. Stark and Agent Barton intend to force all of you into a comparative tasting of their preferred coffee-brewing methods,” Vision provides. “Although, I’m not certain why I am here.”

“You are here because I have to be,” Wanda informs him, settling her chin on his shoulder boredly.

Rhodey dons an exaggerated expression of realization, as if crucial information has suddenly dawned on him. “Okay, but hear me out, everyone. We could all just _leave.”_

“But--I mean, but what if we want to try the coffee?” Peter asks guiltily.

Rhodes presents Peter to the group with a flourish. “The child has volunteered as tribute!”

“Oh, let’s let Clint have his revenge fantasy, kids,” Natasha requests. “Tony got pissy this morning because Clint said he didn’t like Tony’s fancy coffee and so Tony sent him texts and emails every five minutes while he was trying to train agents and now Clint’s phone’s not working right,” she explains, rolling her eyes at the pettiness of the whole situation (knowing full well that she helped instigate it).

“I must accept a portion of the blame,” Vision chimes in. “I did assist Mr. Stark in the endeavor.”

“Vis,” Wanda scolds, slapping his arm, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“That may be beyond the scope of my capabilities, but I’ll attempt it.”

“I’m going to bed.”

“Come on, Buck, just humor them. Then we’ll go watch the Wizard of Oz or something.”

Sam snorts. “Fourth time this week you two have watched that movie, isn’t it?”

Rhodes raises his hand in warning to silence Sam. “Shh, Wilson--they think we don’t know what sex is.”

Steve awkwardly removes his hand from Bucky’s knee and fidgets with the hem of his shirt as the rest of the team nods in agreement, except for Peter, who lets slip a soft, wide-eyed, “Oh my gosh.”

 

* * *

  

“Barton, look, I don’t know if I touched a nerve, earlier, but doesn’t this seem a little extreme?” Tony smiles sweetly as he empties his last pitcher of milk, pouring and holding back the foam with a spoon single-handedly.

“Nope,” Clint grins in response, pouring cold 2% into a cup.

“This,” Tony continues, glancing over his shoulder at the counter, “doesn’t strike you as, I don’t know, maybe--overkill?”

“Not really, no.”

“Then prepare to taste to taste the bitterness of defeat, my friend,” Stark shrugs with a competitive glint in his eye.

“Only bitterness around here’s those burnt-ass, blue-blooded coffee cinders you just steamed.”

“Did you know that bitterness only appeals to the most highly evolved palates? There’s some really neat science behind it but I’d hate to bore you--”

Clint ignores him and clears his throat loudly from the kitchen foyer. “Gentlemen, ladies, transformers - if you would,” he beckons, gesturing toward the island counter.

He and Tony have filled its surface with thirty-two biodegradable cups full of coffee. Sixteen black, Sixteen with milk, but otherwise all indistinguishable. On the bottom of each, out of the team’s sight, Tony and Clint have marked each cup with a _T_ or a _C,_ and then shuffled them. Should be a blind taste-test.

The team seats themselves on the barstools while Tony hops up onto the kitchen counter and leans against his his precious espresso machine, intentionally looking down on Clint.

“Quick show of hands--who thinks they prefer Stark’s coffee?”

Tony’s hand, fingers wiggling, is the first in the air. Peter snaps to attention and puts his up, too. Rhodes follows. Bucky’s drifts upward grudgingly.

Tony gives Peter a thumbs up. “Good man, Spidey. Colonel, thank you. Mr. Barnes! Welcome to Team Iron Man.”

Clint’s jaw drops. “Barnes, what the fuck? I went went to _prison_ for you, man!”

Tony manages to look offended on Bucky’s behalf. “Barton, he’s a _person_ and he’s allowed to make his own choices. Bucky, don’t let him dehumanize you like that. You’re free.”

“Steve gave me some of his this morning,” Bucky explains disinterestedly. “It was alright.”

“Who likes my coffee?” Barton interrupts.

Nat and Wanda raise their hands first, followed swiftly by Sam and Scott.

“Cap?” Clint and Tony press, almost simultaneously.

Steve shakes his head. “Both definitely have their merits,” he deflects, firmly but politely. “I’m going to abstain.”

“Uh, Tony doesn’t know what ‘abstain’ means, Steve,” Clint replies cuttingly.

Peter, the sweet, innocent child, attacks this like he’s back on the high-school debate team. “Well, Captain, I’m just saying, Mr. Stark’s is ethically sourced and made from a higher quality variety of the Arabica bean and it’s really good with that hazelnut syrup,” he argues in a single breath.

Tony grins approvingly. “Nice pitch, Parker. Steve, if you won’t listen to Barnes’ good sense or your own taste-buds, at least listen to the pleas of this humble boy from Brooklyn.”

“Uh - it’s Queens, Mr. Stark--”

“Shush, we’re appealing to his heart, not his mind.”

Peter nods with eager understanding. “Okay.”

Steve laughs and throws his hands up. “I like ‘em both,” he maintains.

“Yeah, you _think_ you do,” Clint smirks, passing him two cups of black. “But the truth will out.”

Steve scoffs fondly at Clint’s intent gaze and takes a sip of both. Every eye in the room is on him as his eyes narrow with careful consideration, and then shrugs. “Really - both of these are excellent--”

“Stevie, just pick one so we can leave,” Bucky says with a rare, unnerving smile.

Steve takes another drink from each cup and holds the liquid in his mouth thoughtfully this time. Finally, he slides one cup forward. Tony descends from his counter-top throne to pass him two cups with cream. Steve makes his choice after only one drink this time, and puts the left cup forward decisively.

Tony picks up the two cups he selected to check the letters and winces. “Oh, my, my, lookie there. Ouch. Barton - last chance to call it quits and save yourself the humiliation.”

Clint checks the letters for himself.

Two points for Tony.

Fuck. For the first time in his life, Clint finds himself wondering if he could beat Captain America in one-on-one combat. He sets his jaw resolutely. “This is not over.”

Tony simpers. “Your funeral. Okay, we’re two-oh out of the gate. Vision, keep track of the score.”

“Nat, you keep track, too. I don’t trust the robot.”

“Agent Barton, if I _had_ a preference, I would rather that Mr. Stark lose and learn some humility,” Vision admits.

Clint backpedals hastily. “Yeah, man, absolutely, keep score,” he concedes.

Tony checks the next set of cups and passes them to Sam. Wilson makes a hell of a show over it, hemming and hawing and hoping to keep everyone in suspense. Finally, he puts two cups forward.

Clint lifts them up, and decides he hates Wilson _slightly_ less than Steve. “Point for me on the black coffee, point for Tony on the girl-drink.”

“Vision,” Tony smiles. “I believe that makes us three-one in my favor.”

“So it does,” Vision confirms pleasantly.

Clint’s eyes fall on Peter. Oh _God_ , does he ever want to win this one. Almost as bad as he wants Rhodes. He and Tony set the cups in front of him. He says _thank you_ four separate times. An agonizing five minutes later, the poor kid’s sitting there with four empty cups, looking confused. “I-I, uh...I mean, I’m just not sure--”

“Which ones were Tony’s?” Clint snipes.

“Yeah. No! It’s just that I can’t tell which one I liked better. Without the hazelnut syrup.”

Tony rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully, then gives Peter Steve’s half empty cups. “No rush. We’ll come back to you.”

“Three-one,” Vision supplies.

Lang’s up next. He takes a generous gulp of each and casts his votes confidently with a smart nod. “May the best archer win.”

That earns a smug smile from Tony, which stiffens deliciously as he peeks under the cups. Clint snatches them from him to confirm his suspicions and passes one back to Scott for a toast. “Three-three, baby!” Clint all but shouts.

“Fuck, yeah, man!” Lang agrees, downing the rest of the coffee like a shot. “Oh, shit, sorry,” he cringes at Peter.

“How you doing over there, Spidey?” Tony asks nervously. “You ready to do this?”

“Um.”

Clint, emboldened by his victory, gives him Sam’s cups. “Let him think, Stark. He’ll make the right choice.”

Vision announces, “Tied at three-three--”

“Yes, we all heard, thank you.” Tony sets Wanda’s cups in front of her with an imploring look. “You know, of everyone on this team, your powers? Definitely the coolest.”

Wanda doesn’t keep them waiting long, but once again, the vote is split. Tony’s latte, Clint’s black coffee. She shrugs apologetically as Clint checks the latte. “The other one was a little cold,” she reasons.

“Tied at four-four.”

Parker dabs at his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and then sheds it. “Hey, uh, Wanda?” he asks, wetting his lips shyly. “Can I…?” She re-shuffles her cups and slides them down to him at the end of the counter.

Rhodes doesn’t cut any corners. He cups his hand over each sampling and takes in the aroma, then takes a sip of each, and then a full drink, holding every mouthful on each set of tastebuds respectively. Clint prepares to accept the loss gracefully and lets Tony check the cups.

“Well,” Tony says, tight-lipped and emotionless. “It’s okay, Rhodey. I’ll be okay. We had a good run.” He shoves the coffees back across the counter.

“You’re kidding me!” Rhodey gasps. “No.”

“Six-four, in Agent Barton’s favor, I believe,” Vision predicts correctly.

Clint hasn’t felt this much pure, unbridled joy since his first child was born. “Ahaha!” he roars, pumping his fist. “Oh, that was _beautiful.”_

“Aw, Tony, I’m so sorry,” Rhodes laughs, covering his eyes.

“No, no, we’re good. We’re good,” Tony promises with a wave of his hand, then taps a finger against his cheek. “Come on. A betrayal like this, you could at least kiss me, buddy.”

Rhodes is too busy dealing with the end of his friendship with Stark to take much notice when Parker whispers a few _Excuse me_ ’s and _Sorry_ ’s behind him and makes off with his cups.

Clint is _very_ suspicious that Barnes’ votes are totally random. He takes a disinterested sip from each cup and silently selects the Americano and the coffee with cream. Whatever, he’s still winning. He’ll take it.

“Agent Barton leads, seven to five.”

Tony shoves his way past Clint to present Natasha with her selection of coffees. “You remember a couple of years ago when Barton had Wanda help him beat you up?”

Natasha picks up a cup and tips her head inquisitively. “Was the that same year you tried to have me arrested?” she smiles, raising it to her lips. Clint gives her an approving nod.

She tries all four. And then Clint starts to get _really_ anxious, because he knows that look. Surprise. Confusion. She’s _not sure._ “Nat,” he chuckles nervously as she takes a second pass at them.

“Got it,” she replies tersely, pushing two cups forward. Clint chews the inside of his cheek as he watches her almost slide one back and change her vote. She stays.

Tony checks one, Clint checks the other.

“Aw, shucks, Romanoff,” says Tony.

 _“Bitch,”_ says Clint.

“No! Shit! I take it back! Can I take it back? Re-do,” Natasha begs, slamming her palms down on the granite.

“Ah-ah,” Stark taunts. “You’ve made your choice. I’ll get the War Machine suit altered to your measurements by tomorrow.”

“You are uninvited to my Halloween party,” Clint declares, pouring her coffees into the sink with disgust.

“Yeah, we’ll see what _Laura_ says about that,” Natasha snaps back.

“I thought you had my back!”

“I thought I was supposed to pick the one that tasted better!”

“Tied at seven-seven,” Vision interrupts.

“Alright, Peter, let’s put this matter to bed,” says Tony, brushing past Clint’s shoulder. “What’s it gonna be?”

“I’m really trying to make a decision, it’s just that at first I wasn’t sure which I liked better and they all tasted pretty great even though weren’t very sweet and I usually put a bunch of sugar in mine, or, you know, when you make it for me, you do that thing with the hazelnut syrup, which is honestly my favorite coffee that I’ve ever had, but it’s just that without that, I guess they’re all just starting to taste the same and I’m really having trouble picking because it’s just very hard to think.” He manages to take one last swig of a black coffee before he gags.

Barnes is the first out of his seat, and thank God he’s fast - he gets to Parker in an instant, wraps an arm around his waist, scoops him up off the barstool, spilling two of the coffees in the process, and manages to have the kid’s head over the trashcan by the time he pukes.

Everyone except for Clint, Scott, and Vision has to avert their eyes and cover their mouths. The resident dads are fortunately just as desensitized to the sight of vomit as the robot with no sense of smell.

And Peter vomits _a lot._ There’s a good three minutes of nothing but awkward, guilt-ridden silence from the adults, punctuated by Parker’s chokes and heaves as he empties the liquid from his stomach. Once a full minute has passed without another wave of it, Barnes leans down to ask, “You eaten anything today?”

“Mountain Dew,” Parker rasps wetly.

Bucky lifts him up and throws him over his shoulder. Peter just groans, arms dangling limply. “I’m going to take him to medical,” he announces laconically, and leaves.

Steve clears his throat, gives Clint and Tony a sharp glance, and jogs after him.

Tony has to keep the sleeve of his shirt over his mouth and nose. “You know,” he says diplomatically. “Um, in hindsight…”

“Yeah,” Clint finishes for him.

“For the record,” Vision pipes up, leaning over to study the cup that’s spilled across the tiles. “It _was_ the Americano which caused him to vomit. I believe that puts the final score at eight to seven in favor of Agent Barton’s brewed coffee.”

Clint winces sympathetically at the garbage can. “Yeah, I don’t think we’re playing anymore,” he concedes humbly.

“Good call,” Tony concurs.

But Clint can’t really be blamed when he turns discreetly toward Natasha and _almost_ says something. It doesn’t take her long to read the minute change in his expression. She raises her cup ever-so-slightly in Clint’s direction with a smile in her eyes, mouthing, _Cheers, bitch._

Collateral damage happens. It’s a cruel reality of war. Anyway, Parker heals up quick. And yeah, maybe his teammates now think a little less of him. Maybe he and Tony have both shown their asses and they'll be hearing about it for the next month.

Doesn’t change the fact that he fuckin’ _won._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been so much fun. Thank you so much, anon. Great prompt. There's always room for more wank in the coffee fandom!
> 
> Thank you guys so very much for reading and commenting!

**Author's Note:**

> What am I doing writing this "Teen and Up" shit. What kind of monster have I become.
> 
> I find it amazing that this prompt was submitted before Civil War was released. My anon must have been delighted by the canonical line, "Who left coffee grounds in the sink? What - am I running a bed and breakfast for a biker gang?"


End file.
